


Gifts of the Hunt

by anneapocalypse



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Children, Eluvians, F/F, Fade to black sex, Femslash Exchange 2020, Gap Filler, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Mild Blood and Injury, Worldbuilding, emotional tension, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27404356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: Lyna Mahariel follows Morrigan through the eluvian, leaving behind her life with the Wardens and with her Dalish clan. With only each other, Morrigan's child, and the magic of a long-forgotten past, what kind of future will the two of them have together?
Relationships: Female Mahariel/Morrigan (Dragon Age), Morrigan/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 34
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prix/gifts).



> I had a lot of fun writing this for you, Prix! Thank you for requesting this pairing, and for your excellent prompts. I hope you enjoy this story.
> 
> Regarding the eluvians: I have done my best to kind of synthesize game canon and book canon into something that acknowledges both and more importantly works for this story. I leaned more heavily on game canon, but chose to include non-elves' discomfort in the Crossroads.
> 
> Regarding Alistair: He is alive, a Grey Warden, and Kieran's biological father, but he is not involved romantically with the main characters. Morrigan having slept with him for the purposes of the Dark Ritual is mentioned. There's a little of Morrigan's ragging on Alistair, but dialed back from the level in canon to be a little friendlier. Alistair also has a friendly relationship with Mahariel.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta reader, [ChocoChipBiscuit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chocochipbiscuit). ❤️

Be swift and silent.

—Vir Assan: The Way of the Arrow

From the shimmer of magical energy cascading over her skin and just as quickly gone, a new world emerges before Lyna Mahariel's eyes. Her boots meet stone, and she blinks in the brightness of this strange new light, after the murky dark of the ruin at Drake's Fall.

As her vision clears, so does the sight of Morrigan at her side, looking at Lyna with an impossibly self-satisfied smirk. Ah, that beautiful arrogance. It's been too long. Not so long that Lyna has forgotten the pull of that smile upon her heart.

"'Tis a wonder, is it not?"

"It's incredible," Lyna confesses, too busy taking in this new place to be coy. She could never have hidden her awe from Morrigan anyway. Those piercing amber eyes cut straight through to her soul, and they can see that she is impressed.

Let Morrigan enjoy this moment of triumph, then. Creators, she's earned it.

Lyna's mabari, Falon, whines softly at her side, and Lyna reaches down to stroke his head reassuringly.

"Come." Morrigan gestures, with a touch of impatience. "'Tis not far. This place is uncomfortable to linger in, but 'twill be a short journey."

"I don't find it uncomfortable." Lyna casts her eyes upward to the hazy sky, the trees in bloom between twisting stone paths stretching into the mist. From somewhere she can hear the sound of what seems like running water, though she cannot see the source of it. "It's… beautiful. Strange, but beautiful. What _is_ it?"

Morrigan does not answer the question, instead studying her curiously. "You… do not find the light troublesome, then. Your head does not ache?"

"Not at all. It's… clean, like fresh air. It's lovely. I could—" Lyna cuts herself off, turning to Morrigan curiously. Only the slight pinch of her brow belies any discomfort. Falon certainly seems to have an opinion, however, uttering a low sound of displeasure halfway between a whine and a growl. "It makes your head ache?"

"Curious," Morrigan murmurs, again not answering the question. "So it _is_ different for elves."

"For elves… so these mirrors _are_ elven, aren't they? Duncan said Tevinter, but…"

Instinctively, Lyna turns around, but the mirror from whence they came has gone dark.

"An understandable error. Tevinter built much of their empire on elven magic they did not truly understand."

Lyna stares into the dark mirror a moment longer, just to be sure. But the glass is still. No ripples, no movement. None of the foul scent she did not yet know for darkspawn corruption, before that blaze of light, and Tamlen's scream.

"This portal will not be usable again," Morrigan is saying, nodding away from the mirror. Lyna shakes free of the memory and turns to follow. "I spoke the truth. But fear not. There are many others. Come. You wish to meet my son, do you not? 'Tis not far."

Lyna can see no walls or boundaries to this… place they travel through, only paths twisting and turning between dozens of mirrors, maybe hundreds beyond the fog into which they recede on all sides. Looking up, the sky—is it sky?—seems at once distant and close, nearly close enough to reach out and touch, though she is sure her fingertips would grasp only mist.

Stepping out of the portal from Drake's Fall, it had seemed for a moment to be at the center, four mirrors in an outward-facing square encircled by a stone path, branching outward like the spokes of a wheel. But now, on the move, she can clearly see that that is not true. There is no center point, only rows and rings of mirrors and paths cutting between, and every time her eyes seem to seize upon a pattern, it slips away.

"How can you know where you're going?" she can't help asking as they walk, Falon keeping pace at her side. "Everything looks the same to me."

A smile plays on Morrigan's lips. "''Twas difficult, at first. I have had some time to learn these paths and grow accustomed to them."

Lyna can't help feeling a little foolish for asking. Of course Morrigan knows the way. In the same way that her clan's hunters learn the twists and turns of the ever-changing forests that confound the humans of the nearby towns. Morrigan, too, is a woman of the wilds. She too has walked many lonely paths, found her own way.

Most of the mirrors are dark, others cracked or shattered from their frames and lying in pieces on the cobblestone. Lyna notices a few that bear the blood-red tinge and foul corruption of the mirror she and Tamlen found in the ruin. She is glad they do not pass close to any of those.

A few, however, glow with the dark violet light of the mirror at Drake's Fall. Before long, they stop before one such mirror. Morrigan shoots her a quick glance and a sure smile, and Lyna is quietly surprised to feel Morrigan's hand find hers, before she steps through, and Lyna after her, with Falon at her heel.

Lyna isn't sure what she expected to see on the other side, but it wasn't the interior of a modest stone cottage.

At least, that is what it seems to be at first glance. Yet as soon as her feet touch the floor, something seems odd, and as her eyes adjust to the dimmer—interior?—light, she stands for a moment trying to make sense of what she sees. There is a wide fur-covered bed, walls lined with bookcases, and on one shelf, a glint of gold—the jeweled mirror Lyna gave Morrigan all those months ago. Morrigan meanwhile has moved straight on past her to lift a sleepy-eyed infant from… a stone bassinet?… which appears to be built into the floor. No, not built into— _grown_ out of. An outcropping of stone, reaching a little higher than waist-height for Morrigan, with a deep oblong bowl-shaped dip in it, lined with bedding, just the size to safely hold an infant a few months old.

Falon shakes his head as though shaking something off himself, and lets out a happy bark. The child makes curious sounds as he awakens, and a tiny fist grasps at the folds of Morrigan's robes.

Morrigan is smiling.

There are more strange things about this cottage, more than Lyna has had time to consider, but she is stuck on how Morrigan is smiling into the face of her child. A broad, happy, utterly guileless smile. "Hello, little man. Hello. I hope you slept well. I have someone for you to meet."

"Ga," says the baby, and brings a fold of Morrigan's robes to his mouth, and chews on it with toothless gums. Morrigan seems unconcerned by this. Incredible. Lyna still remembers how cross she would get in camp anytime Falon came galloping up to greet her and drooled on her clothing. Wonders will never cease!

"Lyna," Morrigan says, "this is my son, Kieran. Kieran, this is Lyna."

"Hello Kieran," Lyna coos, going into baby-voice automatically and holding out a finger for Kieran to grasp experimentally. "Hello!" Kieran's little fingers curl around Lyna's, and she can't help grinning. "He must be… almost three months?"

"Just so."

"He seems so…"

Morrigan raises an eyebrow. "Normal?"

"Something like that."

"He is," Morrigan agrees, shifting Kieran toward her hip and bouncing him slightly. "As I said… he is an innocent. Despite the destiny that awaits him, for the moment, he is but a child."

Lyna surveys the cottage again. The walls are certainly stone, mortared as you might see in any Tevinter ruin, though the room is not square but round like those wooden huts you see sometimes in Ferelden, with a fire pit in the center. Yet upon closer inspection the grooves appear to be purely superficial, the stones not truly separate from one another. Threads of what looks like gold weave through the stone, as well as little flecks of color, like mica caught by the sun. The ceiling slopes up to a point at the center, not thatched but raftered with what appear to be the raw branches of trees, spreading in organic forms from that central point. The ceiling itself—Lyna cannot make out its material, leaves perhaps?— _appears_ solid, and yet allows more light to pass through than seems strictly possible.

"Morrigan," she says at last, "what _is_ this place?"

Morrigan smiles, and nods to a door that Lyna cannot fully swear was there before. "Come. I will show you."

_Outside_ answers no more questions than _inside._

At a glance, the stone cottage sits in a forest clearing, trees in bright bloom all around. Yet there is something _off_ about these trees, and Lyna actually goes and takes a low-hanging branch in her hand to examine what might be leaves, or petals, or both… or neither. They are a pinkish color, smooth to the touch, and strangely lacking in detail—pretty to look at, and yet not quite real.

Not quite _alive._

As in the place between the mirrors, the sky goes up and up into a misty emptiness that seems both to end just beyond reach, and to go on forever.

The roof of the stone cottage is not thatch, not sod, but a mass of vines and leaves so tightly twisted together that Lyna cannot fathom how the light is getting through, or for that matter where the light comes from, as there is no sun visible in the misty sky.

"The place we came through to get here," Morrigan explains, still holding Kieran in her arms, "is a kind of crossroads. There all eluvians join; one must only find the right path."

"All eluvians," Lyna repeats, understanding sinking in as it had not yet had time to do. "Spread across all of Thedas… all corners of the ancient empire. All connected. This is what they were _for."_

Morrigan nods. "For crossing distances, great and small, yes. So far as I can tell, this was their purpose. Tevinter attempted to use the mirrors after they conquered the elves—your people—but could only use them for communication over distances. They never unlocked their true potential."

"And this place?"

 _"This_ place is… different." Morrigan rubs Kieran's back. The boy clings to her shoulder, eyes wide with innocent curiosity, but content. His eyes are darker than Morrigan's, Lyna notices, but he is still so young, they may yet change. When he smiles, though—there is something in that smile that is unmistakably Alistair. "You can feel, perhaps, that it is not natural. What you see as trees are not alive, no more than these stone walls or the ground beneath our feet."

"We're not in the Fade, are we?" Lyna says warily.

"Not precisely. But we are closer to it here. 'Tis a construct, and as such, 'tis more malleable by magic than the waking world. What you see here, what you touch, is real. Organic, even. But there are no spirits here."

Lyna turns in every direction, peering through the trees, but they only seem to grow thicker in the distance until her vision is obscured. "But can spirits enter here? Is it dangerous?"

"While spirits _could_ enter this place, theoretically, doing so would present the same difficulties as entering the waking world. And compared to the normal world, there is little here to entice a demon. Nothing here is _alive_ except we three."

"So Kieran… was safe here, by himself?"

Lyna does not mean it so critically, but Morrigan gives her a piercing look. "This place is, as you can see, uninhabited. I placed wards about him, and left only for a brief time. Had any creature approached him, or any ill befallen him, had he so much as cried, I would have known in an instant and returned to him."

"I didn't mean anything by it," Lyna says, gently. "It's just that he's very young."

"I should have brought him to Drake's Fall with me, then? A place so recently cleared of darkspawn that it still fairly reeks of their corruption?"

 _And what was so important at Drake's Fall?_ Lyna does not say, sensing that she has walked into a pointless argument. Instead she said, "No, I suppose not."

"I would allow no harm to come to Kieran," Morrigan says sharply, cradling the boy in her arms and walking back toward the cottage. "He is my son. Think me unfeeling if you like, but do not think me a fool."

"Morrigan," Lyna says, stepping quickly to keep pace behind her, "if I thought _either_ of those things, would I have come here with you?"

Morrigan pauses just beyond the threshold, her back still to Lyna, and then says with reluctance, "Perhaps."

Lyna crosses her arms. "And what would compel me to do such a thing?"

"Perhaps that you thought me unfit to care for a child."

Lyna drops her arms to her sides in exasperation. "You think I came to _take_ Kieran from you?"

"I… did not say that." Morrigan turns, and her amber eyes flicker down at the baby, and soften by a measure. "You asked a question. I merely answered with a possibility."

"Can we dispense with the hypotheticals?"

"By all means."

"I came here," Lyna says, taking a step closer, "because I wanted to be with you." Watching the flutter of the sleeping boy's dark eyelashes against his cheek, she adds, "And Kieran."

"And now that you have come," Morrigan says, her voice softening slightly, "do you regret it?"

Lyna answers by rising on her toes and kissing her. Morrigan's arms are occupied with Kieran but she does not pull away from the kiss, even leans into it. That says most of what Lyna needs to know, for the moment.

"I regret nothing. Not coming with you, and not meeting your beautiful boy." Unable to keep from smiling at the sight of Kieran's sweet round face, she can't resist adding, "He has his father's smile."

"You take that back this instant," Morrigan says, and it takes a closer look at the glint in her eyes for Lyna to be sure she's joking.

"Oh, come now," Lyna teases. "You can't _still_ have it out for Alistair after all this."

"He performed his role quite adequately," Morrigan says airily. "I will grant him that."

"He saved my life."

Strange as the ritual might have seemed when Morrigan first proposed it, Lyna could readily admit she was not eager to walk with Falon'Din so soon, nor to send her friend to the side of his Maker. And thanks to Morrigan's ritual, and Alistair's participation, both of them are alive.

"Besides," Lyna adds, "you wouldn't have Kieran without him."

Morrigan smiles, and it seems their brief quarrel is forgotten. "Indeed. And so all is as it should be, yes?"

"You said you didn't intend to remain at Drake's Fall for long," Lyna muses later. They are sitting on the cottage floor together, Kieran still in Morrigan's arms. The cottage has neither bench nor chair, Lyna has noticed, but the floor is spread with a fur that is quite comfortable to sit on. At least it appears to be spread with one, and the thought of bearlike fur simply growing out of the stone floor by magic is a touch unsettling and so Lyna is trying not to think about it too much. "It is lucky I caught you there, then."

Morrigan raises an eyebrow at her. "There is something Mother used to say— _fate_ is oft mistaken for _luck."_

Lyna cocks an eyebrow in return. "And do you believe in fate?"

A smirk plays on Morrigan's face. "In a sense. You do understand your approach was no surprise to me? The sort of scrying ritual your little friend employed is easily detected from the other side, if one has set the proper wards."

Lyna nods curiously. "Then you _did_ know I was coming."

"Indeed. I knew of your approach long before you ever laid eyes on me."

Lyna looks down at her hand, where still glints a familiar silver ring. "I supposed this must have helped as well."

"It may have." Morrigan's voice is teasing.

"You waited for me," Lyna says, gentler. "I'm glad."

Morrigan's smile is easier now. "And I as well."

It takes a few hours for Lyna to realize there is no night coming. The light in the little cottage is unchanging until Morrigan dims it with a wave of her hand, and then a snap of her fingers conjures fire from the round hearth at the center of the cottage, and the room takes on a cozy evening feel.

But there is no sun in the hazy sky outside, no moons, and no stars.

The fire gives off warmth and light, and it's pleasant to sit by, even more pleasant watching as Morrigan drops a kiss on her son's forehead and puts him to bed. But there is no smell of woodsmoke as there would be around a Dalish campfire, listening to Hahren Paivel telling tales to the children.

Still, Lyna's eyelids start to grow heavy by its familiar heat, and she thinks of the long day traveling with her companions to reach Drake's Fall, and realizes how late it must be— _out there_ , beyond the mirrors, in the real world she's left behind.

From a sound sleep, Lyna starts awake in a cold sweat, heart racing, with a hand on her dagger before she has time to think.

She rolls upright, eyes adjusting quickly to the false dark. (Or, rather, isn't it the light that was false? Dark is just _nothing.)_ Above, the faint forms of twisting vines, though they look different—is it just the dark?

Morrigan is asleep beside her in the wide bed, her breast rising and falling with placid breaths.

Lyna rolls out of bed, bare feet silent on the floor. Kieran is in his stone cradle. He breathes evenly, fast asleep.

Something must have awakened her, but all is silent now.

Dagger in hand, Lyna moves for the door. Lays one hand on the threshold as she goes, and stops to look at what meets her palm. For a moment she thinks it is an illusion—ironbark, properly aged and tempered, is hard as stone—but no.

The wall is made of wood.

She is _certain_ it was stone before.

Still this can't be what awakened her. Lyna leaves the mystery of the changing cottage for later, and ventures out into the dark. The grass is dewy, cold and wet underfoot. Was there grass before?

She can't make out much in the shadows of the trees. Nothing seems to move. Lyna looks all about, then stands a while, listening, and that's when it hits her.

It's the _silence._

True woods are never silent. Nights are full of frogs and crickets and owls, the distant (if you're lucky) howl of wolves, other small animals and night birds. Camp is full of noise, voices and footfalls, the crackle of the fire and Hahren's evening tales, others chiming it at the familiar parts. In camp with her companions, there were fewer of them it was true, but always there would be something: Leliana humming a tune, Zevran stoking the fire and flirting with anyone who would listen, Sten honing his blade, Oghren getting progressively shoutier the further he got into his flagon, Shale stomping and hissing at birds, Wynne dispensing wisdom to some willing or unwilling listener. More nights than not, Lyna or Alistair getting up to walk off a nightmare. And while she lay in her bedroll waiting for sleep to come, nothing but oilcloth tent between herself and the outdoors.

Here, there is nothing. Just silence. No sound, no signs of life, except—

At that moment, Kieran starts to cry.

Lyna steps back inside on instinct, but of course Morrigan is already up, lifting Kieran from his cradle and murmuring soothing words as she holds him. Her eyes drift to Lyna, the dagger in her hand, questioningly. With a wave of her hand, a gentle light rises in the little cottage, filtering down through the green vines.

She wasn't mistaken. The walls are wooden now, the weathered brown of aravels. Morrigan appears to take it in, makes a curious noise, but no more.

"Sorry," Lyna says quickly, stowing her blade. "I woke up and thought I heard—well, I didn't hear anything. That was the problem, I guess."

"Ah," Morrigan says simply. "This place is unnaturally quiet, 'tis true."

"It doesn't bother you, I take it."

"I am used to it," Morrigan says. "It can be changed, however. As can anything here." She casts a look around the cottage, and a smile plays on her face. "It seems you have already begun to make an impression."

 _"I_ did this? I'm not even a mage."

"Not consciously, but yes, I believe so. This place responds to what we dream—mage or not, it seems."

 _I dreamed of home, then,_ Lyna thinks. The dream has all but blurred away with the shock of waking, but yes, she can vaguely remember. Landships gliding through the forest, halla horns bright in the sun, hoofbeats carrying them to their next home.

"Is that… dangerous?"

"Not that I have observed in my months here. The raw material of this place cannot be made alive, so if you were worried that your dreams might summon some beast, fear not. Any changes appear to be superficial."

"That's… something to get used to."

"You will get used to it in time. But I can do something to make it a bit easier.

Morrigan waves her hand, a swirl of blue magical energy there and gone in an instant, barely perceptible in the dim light. But even as it fades, Lyna can hear a distant sound of water, like a nearby stream tumbling over its stony bed.

"That is… comforting," she confesses. "Thank you."

Lyna crawls back into bed, takes some deep breath and tries to relax while Morrigan comforts Kieran. She sounds tired, Lyna notices, but her voice takes on an uncharacteristically soothing tone, singing her son back to sleep with a tune Lyna does not recognize. She catches a few of the words, but only a few, as she drifts toward sleep.

But she's not out before Morrigan lays her son back into his cradle, and returns to her side.

"Kieran sleeps restlessly," Morrigan says in a low voice, like telling a secret.

"Is it because of…?"

"'Tis too early to tell, I should think."

Lyna supposes that's true. She's seen plenty of babies born to her clan, and it usually takes a few months for them to sleep through the night. And when they don't, the whole camp knows it.

"He does seem so much like an ordinary child. Are you sure the ritual…?"

"…Worked as intended?" Morrigan finishes for her. "You know that it must have. You did slay the Archdemon and live, did you not?" She smiles. "Of which I am glad."

"I'm glad, too." And she is. Not just to be alive, but to be here, with Morrigan and her child. She adds, "You're good with him."

"I should hope so. I am all he has."

Lyna rolls onto her side, facing Morrigan. "I meant that as a compliment."

"I understand how you meant it, I simply do not comprehend the reason. How else would I be with him? He is my son."

"Morrigan."

Morrigan pauses, then lays her head on the pillow, and lets out a sigh. "You were trying to say something kind. I—thank you. I appreciate your intent."

Lyna lays a hand on the curve of Morrigan's hip in response. Morrigan shifts closer. In turn, _she_ moves closer.

And then Morrigan's lips are on hers, Morrigan's body against hers. She is warm, her hands sure as she pulls Lyna closer, and Lyna considers stopping to speak further only momentarily, before leaning in and letting this happen as it will. It takes little time to strip one another of their smallclothes, and then Morrigan is on top of her, straddling Lyna's narrower hips with a knowing smile.

"Kieran…?" Lyna murmurs.

"His cradle is warded for quiet. If he is disturbed, 'twill not be by us."

"Clever."

Morrigan's lips quirk in a wry smile. "Anything to help him sleep."

It's been over a year. The last time she lay with Morrigan was… she can't actually remember, truly. Sometime before they reached Denerim. Before she pushed Lyna away, before she announced that she was leaving.

Lyna pulls her back down for another kiss, and relishes Morrigan's hands and lips on her body once again.


	2. Chapter 2

As the sapling bends, so must you.

—Vir Bor'assan: The Way of the Bow

Lyna drifts awake with a lazy, contented feeling, curled up in sheets that feel somehow silkier and softer than when she lay happy and spent beside Morrigan, listening to her breathing calm.

She's so comfortable she lies there for a bit without opening her eyes. It feels good, waking up in Morrigan's bed again. Or… well, truth be told, Morrigan had teasingly shooed Lyna out of her tent more nights than not, wanting her space, so… it's good, waking up with her.

Of course, she is not actually waking up _next_ to Morrigan, whose side of the bed is vacant. She's close by, though, when Lyna opens her eyes—seated cross-legged on the floor with Kieran at her breast.

Lyna would never have described Morrigan as _motherly_ , and she doesn't suppose Morrigan would have appreciated the sentiment if someone _had_ done so, at least not before. Now, however, Lyna is simply struck by how natural, and frankly beautiful, she looks. The scarlet robes she wears draped over her breasts push easily aside to make room for her child, and her dark hair is down—pulled to one side over her shoulder, but down. She hasn't yet put on her jewelry, or done up her eyes and lips in the wine shade she favors, and her bangs have grown out a little, framing her face more softly. It is not that she's _more_ beautiful like this—Morrigan has always been stunning—just that it is a different sort of beauty, somehow.

Lyna is openly staring when Morrigan's eyes meet hers, her lips quirking into a knowing smile. "Good morning, my love. I do hope you slept well."

"Like a baby," Lyna says, without thinking, and then laughs. "Maybe better than a baby."

Morrigan winks, and the interior of the cottage lightens noticeably as if on her wordless command. "I have provisions in the cupboard, if you are hungry. Do help yourself."

 _What cupboard_ , Lyna almost says, even as her eyes come to focus on a large wooden cupboard seemingly built into the wall nearer the door, which she had somehow failed to notice, though certainly it must have been there before.

She rolls out of bed, picking her smallclothes off the floor to put on, and then her tunic. She doesn't bother with her leggings. The temperature in the cottage is comfortable on her bare skin. Only when her feet touch the floor does she notice that it wasn't just her half-asleep fancies. The bed, too, has changed in the night from a simple wood frame and wilder bedclothes to an ornate gold headboard and silken linens.

"You could have conjured up some silk sheets _before_ we made love," she can't help teasing.

Morrigan only laughs.

True to Morrigan's word, the cupboard is piled with stable provisions, dried meats and hard cheese, an assortment of dried fruit and a few fresh apples. There are two waterskins as well, and Lyna finds herself wondering where the water comes from. Can Morrigan simply summon water from… this place? Water, after all, is not alive.

Creators, there is so much she does not know about the world, about her people's ancestors and their magic, and _this_ place only makes that more abundantly clear.

Food, at least, is familiar. Dried provisions are a staple of any Dalish camp. The clan's hunters bring in fresh game and gather what herbs and vegetation the forests yield, but there are always bad winters, or woods too rife with beasts and spirits to safely hunt, or a sudden move prompted by suspicious humans in a nearby village.

She finds a wide shallow ceramic bowl in the cupboard as well (edged with gold—Morrigan's doing, no doubt) and takes a minute to arrange the strips of dried venison and some wedges of cheese and some figs, making a good-looking breakfast of it if she does say so, and brings it to share with Morrigan, along with the water skin.

Kieran is just finished up nursing as Lyna sets the bowl between them. "I can hold him for a bit while you eat, if you like."

Morrigan looks surprised, and for a moment seems at a loss for words, so Lyna adds quickly, "It's all right if you don't want me to. I just thought I'd offer."

"I—no," Morrigan says, recovering. "'Tis a kind offer, and I would be much obliged. I am… unaccustomed to having help. It has been just the two of us."

 _No wonder she's such a natural_ , Lyna thinks, taking Kieran carefully from Morrigan's arms, holding him against her shoulder and giving a few gentle pats on his back. _She's had to be._ It will be almost three months since Kieran's birth, and Morrigan has been alone. Alone to hold him, to feed him and change him, to get up in the night to care for him.

It's hard to imagine. Lyna has no children, of course, but she's cared for plenty of babies in her clan. Among the Dalish, no one raises a child alone. There is always someone to hold a baby, to play with a toddler, to nudge an exhausted parent off for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

And Morrigan has done it alone. All of it.

"Did you give birth here? By yourself?"

Morrigan pauses before answering. The mouthful of cheese might be part of her reason. "'Twas the safest place," she says, after swallowing. "I could not risk being discovered as an apostate by some village midwife who might go screaming to the templars with me in a… compromised state. I might have defended myself, but 'twould have endangered Kieran and I would not risk it." Her brow furrows slightly; Lyna is sure her own dismay shows on her face, because Morrigan adds, "Do not think I was unprepared. I had some spells to aid the birthing, and you know I am a more than competent herbalist."

"Still," Lyna says quietly. "You shouldn't have had to do those things for yourself. I'm sorry that you were alone."

Morrigan waves impatiently, which looks somehow funnier with a fig in her hand. "'Twas no fault of yours. _I_ did not allow you to be. Why would you apologize?"

"I'm not apologizing. I'm just sorry that I wasn't here."

"Ah. Well, do not trouble yourself on my account. I am well, as you can see, and so is Kieran."

Lyna decides the subject is best dropped. "You've got a good store of food. It doesn't come from here? You said nothing here is alive, so…"

"Indeed. Periodically, I visit a village to resupply. Most take me for just another Chasind refugee, driven north from the Wilds by the Blight. I do nothing to disabuse them of the notion."

"I suppose you haven't had any fresh meat in a while."

"Now and again. What I have suffices."

"Well, I could get you some."

Morrigan waves a hand. "There is no need to trouble yourself."

Lyna raises an eyebrow, smiling. "You do remember that I'm a hunter, right?"

"I _do_ remember, yes. I only say that you needn't trouble yourself."

"But it wouldn't be trouble."

Morrigan sits back and hums thoughtfully, chewing. Lyna is pleased that she looks to be considering the idea. "It might not be so simple as you imagine. With Drake's Fall gone dark, I have doubts as to whether any eluvians remain active in Ferelden. I suspect there are many more active within the borders of Orlais, but any and all are locked from the other side. Those I have been able to map will take you well to the north, to the Free Marches and beyond."

"I do know some of the Free Marches. My clan didn't only roam Ferelden, you know."

Morrigan looks pensive. "I do know of one unlocked mirror that leads to a ruin in a forested area to the north. I cannot guarantee its safety, however, and with Kieran, I have not ventured far beyond the mirror itself."

"It's worth exploring, at least. My clan always made sure new parents had plenty of fresh meat. You need the nutrients after giving birth."

She half expects Morrigan to be prickly again, but instead her lover's face takes on an amused smirk. "So you insist on fussing over me like a mother hen, then? Shall I get used to being waited upon hand and foot?"

"Yes," Lyna says with a satisfied smile, "You shall."

Kieran is a happy enough child awake, and he falls asleep easily enough when laid down, but inevitably wakes fussing or crying within a few hours. It is not uncommon for infants, Lyna knows, and Kieran is still barely three months old. Yet still, she wonders what dreams might trouble the boy. One day he may tell them—tell his mother. For now, he cries, and Morrigan rises, weary but unperturbed, to comfort him.

The second night, Kieran's cries don't awaken Lyna immediately. Instead she dreams of a child crying, of wandering through dense woods, trees that choke out every path, grasping Sylvan hands everywhere she turns. She can hear the cries, and her heart thunders in her chest, telling her she must hurry, find him, protect him, but her blades cannot cut through the branches fast enough.

And all at once, the trees and the dream give way, and she is awake in the darkened hut, and someone is singing.

> _Fear not the spirits that rise in the marshlands.  
>  Fear not their flames, nor the shade's foul breath.  
>  I and my staff shall stand ever beside you  
>  And light up your path in the night._

If the low, rich tones were not so unmistakably Morrigan's voice, Lyna might think she was still dreaming. Kieran's cries have stilled, and there is only the distant sound of a running stream and the close sound of Morrigan, singing an unfamiliar tune in the false night.

She didn't even know Morrigan _could_ sing.

Lyna keeps quiet, listening in a kind of enraptured calm, as Morrigan sings.

> _Fear not the creatures that lurk in wildlands,  
>  Fear neither specter nor beast in the glen.  
>  I and my blade go, the vanguard before you,  
>  And guard you, my child, all the night._
> 
> _Fear not the blight wolf who howls in the woodlands,  
>  Fear not his bite, nor the tear of his claws.  
>  I and my bow shall be guide and be hunter  
>  And guide you, my child, through the night._
> 
> _Fear not the spirits that rise in the marshlands,  
>  Fear not their flames, nor the shade's foul breath.  
>  I and my staff shall stand ever beside you  
>  And light up your path in the night._
> 
> _Fear not the creatures that lurk in the wildlands,  
>  Fear not the rains, nor the winter's harsh chill.  
>  When I am gone, then the stars they will guide you  
>  And bear your heart safe to the dawn._

"That's lovely," she says, keeping her voice low, when Morrigan goes quiet.

Morrigan chuckles softly. "I had hoped not to wake you."

"It's all right. I didn't know you sang. What is that song?"

"I do not, usually. 'Tis a Chasind tune that I picked up."

"Did Flemeth sing it to you?"

Morrigan scoffs, though quietly. "Can you picture Flemeth singing lullabies? No. For a time I traveled amid a band of wilder folk on the move after the Blight, and I heard the songs they sing to their children—when they are not frightening them with tales of witches, of course."

"Naturally."

Morrigan sounds a touch sheepish. "Such melodies are useful, to soothe a child. Kieran seems to like this one. So, I sing it to him."

"Of course. You sing quite well."

"I—thank you. I am unaccustomed to an audience of more than one."

"Don't stop on my account, please."

Morrigan lets out a quiet laugh. "I assure you, Kieran would voice his objections quite loudly if I did."

Lyna smiles into the dark. "Good."

Lyna sleeps well enough, she supposes. Better with the sound of running water in the distance. It is no natural forest, but the sound of _something_ natural tricks her mind enough to be at rest. She still dreams of darkspawn, but since the Archdemon's defeat, she no longer sees the Old God itself in her dreams, roaring to its hordes in the deep. It is hard to believe that the soul of the great corrupted dragon into which she sent so many arrows now dwells in the dark-haired child in Morrigan's arms. She senses no corruption in him, when she holds him. When she struck that final blow upon Urthemiel, the dragon's whole twisted being seethed with it, the corruption so thick in the air she nearly choked on it as she drove her blade home.

She gets no such sense from Kieran, not even faintly. He is, as Morrigan says, just a child. A child with troubled sleep, perhaps, but a child.

Just as often, she dreams of her clan. Sometimes she thinks she sees Tamlen's face, receding into darkness before she can approach. One night, her mind fills with the vicious sounds of shrieks swarming their camp, and Tamlen comes before her again in the agony of corruption, begging her to end his suffering.

Before she can draw her blade in the dream, she wakes, but lies in bed with her heart racing. She remembers falling to her knees as Tamlen fell before her, sobbing herself to sleep alone in her tent. Remembers everything the Blight took from her.

She is still awake when Kieran's wail pierces the dark. Morrigan stirs beside her instantly, but Lyna stops to touch her shoulder. "I'll get him."

"You do not have to—"

"I know. It's all right."

Kieran's face is red in the low light and already streaked with tears as Lyna lifts him from his cradle, murmuring, "It's all right, it's all right, little one. You're safe. Your mother and I are here."

She settles him in her arms, and paces in a slow circle around the fire. Back with her clan, she walked around camp at night with a crying baby more than once. The movement seemed to calm them. She can't remember all the words to Morrigan's Chasind lullaby, so she sings an old Dalish tune instead.

> _Elgara vallas, da'len  
>  Melava somniar  
>  Mala taren aravas  
>  Ara ma'desen melar_
> 
> _Iras ma ghilas, da'len  
>  Ara ma'nedan ashir  
>  Dirthara lothlenan'as  
>  Bal emma mala dir_
> 
> _Tel'enfenim, da'len  
>  Irassal ma ghilas  
>  Ma garas mir renan  
>  Ara ma'athlan vhenas  
>  Ara ma'athlan vhenas_

She sings it through thrice, and by the time she stops, both Kieran and Morrigan breathe evenly in slumber.

Lyna sits awake, watching over the boy for a while, ready to soothe him when he starts to fuss so that Morrigan may get some sleep. She hardly minds, herself—there is no true night or day here anyway, and she can sleep later, after Morrigan has had some rest.

When Morrigan rises, she takes Kieran to nurse, and Lyna is free to rest but still too wide-awake to sleep. She gets a drink of water and a handful of nuts and dried berries to munch on, and sits looking on while Morrigan holds Kieran at her breast, reaching occasionally to turn the pages of a tome open on her knee with the other. Though her eyes are still shadowed, her expression is less tired, more lost in thought. Her hair lies loose over her shoulders, tucked behind her ears to keep the longer strands out of her eyes, but her shorter bangs still fall in her face even as she absently reaches up to push them back.

Almost without thinking, Lyna moves to sit on the floor with Morrigan, and rests a hand on her back, on her bare skin where her robes do not cover. Morrigan glances up with momentary surprise, but when Lyna offers a quiet smile, she smiles in turn and her eyes drift back to her book. Tentatively, Lyna combs her fingertips lightly through the dark locks, and Morrigan lets out a murmur of a sound—not displeased.

Morrigan has never been given to casual touch, and Lyna has held back in kind. It was different with her people, everyone in each other's space all the time, one's elders never hesitating to direct with a hand on your shoulder, to punctuate with a firm pat on the back. A hand-clasp or embrace were common gestures of friendly affection and Lyna never thought anything of throwing her arms around Tamlen or Fenarel. She might have been more reserved with Merrill, maybe, but only because Merrill was the First, their Keeper's apprentice and set apart, though they were still friends.

But after leaving, coming among humans—well, the reservation was as much her own as anyone else's. These weren't _her people_ , after all.

Not at first.

She's been as intimate with Morrigan as two people can be, physically, and yet she's never been quite sure how Morrigan will react to just—being touched. Simply, like this.

Nor did she know how to ask. She still doesn't.

But Morrigan tilts her head back ever so slightly into Lyna's touch, and so emboldened, Lyna brings her fingers to Morrigan's temples and combs more firmly through her hair, smoothing and gathering her long dark locks in her hands. When her fingertips massage Morrigan's scalp, Lyna feels her still, letting out a sigh almost imperceptibly quiet.

Lyna plays with her hair a few more minutes, combing and gathering, braiding and unbraiding, and Morrigan neither stops her nor turns another page of her book, only sits and breathes in silent calm. Lyna forgets her own tiredness and sinks into a blissful relaxation herself.

Kieran has finished nursing, and is getting squirmy in Morrigan's arms, so at last Lyna smooths Morrigan's hair back and secures it carefully in her usual bun. After considering for a moment, she rises, takes the golden hand mirror from the shelf and sits back behind Morrigan, holding out the mirror in front of her. "Acceptable?"

Morrigan smiles approvingly, shaking her head slightly as though waking from a reverie herself. Lyna admires their faces together, smiling side by side out of the small round glass. "I could not have done better."

Lyna rests a hand on Morrigan's shoulder. "I can take Kieran for a bit, if you like. Let you work."

"Ah," Morrigan says, "'Tis thoughtful, thank you. He would like that, I think. He likes you, don't you, little man?" With that, she lifts Kieran to touch his nose to her own, and Kieran babbles happily.

Lyna grins, and takes the boy from Morrigan's arms, holding him to one shoulder and patting him lightly on the back.

"Ga," says Kieran, curling his little fingers around the hem of her tunic.

"Indeed," says Lyna, very seriously. "Come now. Let's let Mama work."

"I should write to Alistair," she muses over supper.

Morrigan looks up, rather sharply. "What do you mean to tell him?"

"Well, I did just sort of disappear. If I don't mean to return, I ought to let him know. It'll be up to him to lead the Order in Ferelden." _Especially after we lost most of the Orlesian contingent in Amaranthine_ , she thinks, with a twinge of guilt. So much has happened since Morrigan left.

"Indeed. 'Tis unlikely we shall see another Blight in your lifetime, however. There will be time for this rebuilding."

"Not in my lifetime, no." Lyna goes silent for a moment, wondering if it's the right time to bring this up, but… they'll have to talk about it sometime. "Flemeth seemed to know a great deal about Grey Wardens. How much did she tell you?"

"Some, and I studied your treaties while they were in my mother's keeping. What troubles you?"

"I suppose you know about our life expectancy."

"Ah," Morrigan says quietly. "The Calling. Yes."

"Thirty years," Lyna says. "Give or take. That's what Alistair told me, anyway."

They sit in silence for a moment. Lyna stuffs a bite of cheese in her mouth to avoid speaking for a moment, but when Morrigan does not reply, it seems to be up to her to break the pause.

"Anyway." Lyna shakes her head. "That's not what I wanted to— I just meant, Alistair should know, if I'm not coming back. He's the senior Warden in Ferelden, now."

"'Twas never my intent to prevent you from returning, you know." Morrigan tilts her head, studying Lyna with searching eyes. "While I do not know of another eluvian that will return you to Ferelden directly, 'tis not so far to travel from the Free Marches, if you wished it."

Lyna meets her gaze. "I want to stay, Morrigan. I said that and I meant it. That's not why I'm bringing this up."

Morrigan makes an impatient gesture. "I simply do not understand why you see Alistair as your responsibility. He took on the burdens of being a Grey Warden willingly. It is not up to you to look after him."

Lyna shakes her head. "No, I know that. He is not my responsibility. But he is my friend."

Morrigan's expression softens a bit. "I… understand. But this," she makes a wide gesture, "this place, the Crossroads, the eluvians, these are not secrets I wish to share. Not even with… our friend. This place has been my sanctuary, somewhere for myself and Kieran to live safely, out of reach of those who would hunt us. Alistair is—" She scrunches her nose momentarily, but continues, "Alistair is more capable than I perhaps gave him credit for, and if not possessed of great wisdom, at least amenable to good advice. He saved both your lives in agreeing to the ritual, after all. And as you once said…" She looks down fondly at Kieran, who gurgles with what might be fledgling laughter, and waves his little hands. "I would not have my son without him. But surely you also remember how stubborn he can be, and he has never fully lost his templar sensibilities."

Lyna crosses her arms. "You don't really think he'd send templars after his own son."

Morrigan lets out a frustrated sigh. "Perhaps not. I simply will not take the risk."

"I understand." Lyna waves at Kieran, makes a peekaboo face, and the boy utters happy sounds. "Honestly, I didn't intend to tell him about this place. How would I even explain it?"

"Such that he would understand? With great difficulty, I'm sure." It's a jab, but gentle, a smile playing on Morrigan's face, so Lyna lets it go.

"He did know I was going to look for you. If I don't return, he might send people after _me,_ eventually."

Morrigan's eyes narrow slightly. "What precisely _did_ you tell him?"

"Nothing. Only that I was going. Word reached the Grey Wardens that you might be in Ferelden, and I… I had to know. I haven't told him anything since. As far as he knows, I'm still out searching."

"Ah," Morrigan says, softening. "In that case, yes, I suppose there is no harm in writing to him."

"I'll just tell him that I'm fine, and that I'm with you."

 _And that I'm never coming back?_ Lyna doesn't add that part, because in truth, she isn't sure. Will she ever see Ferelden again, Alistair, Soldier's Peak, Vigil's Keep? Or is that one more part of her life that's over forever?

Morrigan nods. "'Tis settled, then. The next time we step out for provisions, we will look for a way to send a missive."

And it seems that settles it, so Lyna says nothing more.

In a way, Lyna herself is loath to leave their little sanctuary. The place is strange, it's true, but after several nights it has also become comfortable in its own way. Light rises and falls in the sunless world with a wave of Morrigan's hand; the hazy trees may draw closer for the sense of a cozy forest clearing, or push back for more breathing room. With a nod, Morrigan draws a stream to run past where they may bathe, wash their clothes, and gather drinking water. At a shake of her head, it diverts, leaving only the distant babbling sound. The cottage itself shifts a little every day, colored by their dreams. Veins of gold and silver twine around the rafters with bright glints that might be jewels. The walls shift from the weathered wood of aravels to oilcloth stretched over wood frames to the vine-covered stone of ancient ruins. And while Kieran dreams, strange black spires spring from the cottage room, stretching sharply toward a moonless sky.

But Lyna can feel herself growing restless, too. While Kieran sleeps or Lyna plays with him, Morrigan occupies herself with reading from the many books in the cottage, tomes filled with history and old magic. Lyna wants to ask more, wants to ask _everything_ —what is Morrigan preparing for? What is this destiny she foresees for Kieran? What is the great change she spoke of?

Morrigan has already shared so much with her. Perhaps more than she wished to. And Lyna fears pushing her too hard.

The evening passes quietly between them. Morrigan returns to her books after supper, worrying the stone in her necklace between her fingers as she reads, a furrow in her brow. Lyna fears she might be cross, and so gives her space. She plays with Kieran, hoping to tire him out for a good few hours of sleep.

Eventually Morrigan sets her book aside and rises to put Kieran to bed. Lyna gives him a kiss goodnight, and Morrigan tucks him into his cradle.

She raises a hand to lower the light in the cottage to a kind of warm twilight, and sits on the edge of the bed. Still for a moment, as though still lost in thought. Her hand rubs the back of her neck, absently, but Morrigan's eyes are still on her son.

Lyna climbs onto the bed herself, and crawls over to sit behind Morrigan. Emboldened by this morning, she rests a hand on Morrigan's shoulder, rubs lightly.

Morrigan turns to look at her, and Lyna leans in to kiss her. Morrigan kisses her back, but Lyna feels her tense slightly under her hand.

"I think I—shall retire," Morrigan says, in a tone Lyna struggles to read. "I am quite tired."

"Yes," Lyna says. "Of course."

She lies awake for some time after Morrigan's breath evens beside her, drifting in a wordless unease.

There is one thing Lyna Mahariel has never feared, and that is the hunt.

So after a few days of rest and solitude together in the little cottage, she asks Morrigan to show her to the mirror of which she spoke, the one leading to a forest in the north.

"To the best of my knowledge," Morrigan is saying, "I estimate that this eluvian exits somewhere in the Planasene Forest in the Free Marches." She has Kieran on her hip, swaddled in the folds of her robes. He's wriggling, fussing a bit, even as Morrigan bounces him gently and strokes his hair softly with one hand. He too is human, and the Crossroads cannot be comfortable for him. Falon barks eagerly, as if he knows what adventures await him on the other side of the glass. "I cannot tell you exactly where, however, or what dangers you may find there. I regret that I did not have enough time to explore every destination thoroughly."

"I can find my way around a forest," Lyna says. "I'll be fine." She gives Kieran her finger to hold, but he waves her away, whimpering. "I'll be home before you know it."

Morrigan looks as though she's about to say something else, but then simply kisses Kieran's forehead and says, "Be careful."

She steps through the mirror, a shimmer of magic cascading over her and then gone. Ruined stone walls come into focus. _Tevinter_ , Lyna thinks, and shivers involuntarily. Ancient stonework overgrown with vines, it still gives her a certain chill, perhaps always will. Reminds her of the pained growl of a werewolf, an army crushed on a battlefield by monstrous foes. Of Tamlen screaming, Tamlen gone, Tamlen twisted and corrupted before her eyes, pleading _Please, lethallan—_

_Breathe, Lyna. As the sapling bends, so must you. Feel your grief, but do not let it break you._

She turns to survey the ruin into which she's emerged. The working eluvian itself stands between two statues, too abraded by wind and weather to recognize, but their form and make says _elven,_ not Tevinter. The smaller room in which she stands opens into a central chamber with a high vaulted ceiling, where it has not crumbled and collapsed. Falon bounds off with excitement but circles back faithfully, sniffing around with eager curiosity.

Oh, how she would love to explore this place further. Find more signs of her people's history, perhaps. As long as the mirror stands, there will be time to return and explore. Perhaps Morrigan would come too. For now, Lyna has a purpose.

As promised, the ruin opens into dense forest. Any path that once led to its doorstep has long been overgrown. It's been a long time since Lyna moved through woods as a hunter, stepping lightly and plotting her path through the trees before her so as to disturb the forest as little as possible. _Swift and silent,_ vir assan, the way of the arrow.

Oh, it feels good. Sun filtering through the canopy—real sun!—and the carpet of real leaves beneath her feet. Falon's nose twitches, taking in the new smells. She feels a breath of wind on her face. It makes _her_ feel real again.

She feels _Dalish_ again.

The forest is well-populated, with all manner of beasts and birds, and the usual restless spirits as well—Lyna navigates around a few suspiciously-shaped trees, recognizing the pattern of Sylvans after her many encounters with them in the Brecilian Forest and the Wending Wood. One rustles to life anyway when her arrow whizzes past, and Lyna is forced to dispatch it before she can pursue her prey.

The choice of game is ample enough that Lyna quickly realizes she will be limited most by what she can carry. She's felled a bear before, but not without a whole clan of hunters to help divide the beast and carry its yield back to camp. Alone, she would have to leave much behind—wasteful. A common ram makes for fine game, and good leather and horn besides, but they don't roam this deep in the woods. Wolves are plentiful in the deep wood but make for poor game, and only a great fool of a lone hunter would provoke a whole pack to take down a single one. With luck, she might spy a hart small enough to carry home by herself, but her best bet for today is probably small game, rabbits and fennecs—easily carried, easily prepared and preserved, and though Lyna is no craftswoman, she knows enough to make use of the furs as well. She will adapt to her circumstances, _as the sapling bends,_ vir bor'assan _._

For some hours, Lyna walks the forest without haste, learning the area that surrounds the ruin and observing its creatures, keeping watch for a beast of about the right age and a good size, patiently lining up a proper killing shot to dispatch her prey without prolonging its suffering. Falon runs ahead and back, nearly bouncing with joy at so much space to run and so many smells to smell. They meet with success, and the pride and satisfaction of a good hunt swells in Lyna's chest.

She can almost imagine that her clan rests not far away, that she could walk half a mile or so and break through the trees to a clearing crowded with aravels, their flags flying bright in the sun.

Actually, it's not impossible. Not _her_ clan perhaps—though they did go north, they might yet be in the Marches—but some Dalish in or near this forest? Almost certainly. Lyna's own clan never came through this western part of the Marches when she was with them, but she knows vaguely the shape and geography of this region, enough to know that if she were to push north or east for long enough, it's not out of the question she might find some of her people.

The thought gives her pause, more so than any arrow she's drawn and then lowered unsent today, waiting for a better shot.

 _Would_ she go back?

If she knew without a doubt that her clan lay around the next corner, would she go? It was only her Blight-sickness that drove her from them in the first place. Yes, she is a Grey Warden now, and always will be. But the Blight is over, and she already walked away from the Wardens when she stepped through that mirror at Drake's Fall.

And deep down, she knows that was the final step away from her Dalish life as well. When she took the hand of her love, her _human_ love. Her witch of the wilds. Her Morrigan.

Andruil's vallaslin marks her as Dalish forever, as surely as the skill with which she draws her bow. She _is_ Dalish. It will always be a part of her, just as what creeps in her blood means she will always be a Grey Warden. Yet insofar as to be Dalish means to be apart, to know no life but her clan—she has already left it behind.

She cannot be _that_ kind of Dalish and be with Morrigan. Her beloved Keeper Marethari would tell her as much. Not without kindness, not without love. But Lyna knows what the answer would be. Morrigan cannot be Dalish, nor would she wish to be. And Kieran…

At the thought of Kieran, her heart pulls taut as a bowstring. He may not be her child by blood, but already his sweet face is imprinted on Lyna's heart, and she knows—

She would no sooner leave that little boy than she would leave Morrigan.

It still aches, the loss of her family. Perhaps it always will. Yet with that departure have come gifts Lyna could never have imagined, and though unexpected, they too she must _receive with mindfulness,_ vir adahlen.

With these thoughts occupying her mind as she retraces her steps to the ruin, the faint rumble of the ground beneath her feet almost doesn't register—until Falon stops short with a sharp bark of alert, and then a low growl. The rumbling intensifies as Lyna snaps to attention, arrow on string.

Something has awakened in the ruin.

She saw nothing on her way out. Not even a spider. And that… should have been a sign, she chides herself, sweeping her gaze across the rubble-strewn central chamber—there is a great heap of crumbled stone from where the roof has caved in on the western side, obscuring her vision. _All_ ruins have spiders. It's practically a law of nature. The Way of the Spider, they should call it! What's the old elven word for spider? Seems that's one she never picked up.

The cracked stone floor trembles again beneath her feet and something rises from the rubble—gray as stone itself, on long arched legs that echo loudly with each step.

"Oh, _fenedhis_ ," Lyna hisses aloud, and draws back further on her string.

It is not her first encounter with a varterral.

Legend has it that the creatures were created to protect the elven people, but if that was their purpose, it seems they have forgotten it. She fought one at Drake's Fall, where it attacked her and her Dalish companion, Ariane, without hesitation or recognition, just as it attacked the human mage Finn, and Lyna's dog. They won that fight, but it was not an easy one, and they were four then.

Now it's just Lyna and Falon.

And that creature is standing between them and the eluvian.

The varterral lets loose an earsplitting shriek, and Lyna grits her teeth and lets the arrow fly.


	3. Chapter 3

Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness.

—Vir Adahlen: The Way of the Wood

Creators, but these creatures move quickly. The speed with which the varterral closes the distance between them chills Lyna's blood. Falon charges in, teeth bared, attacking the creature's nearest leg and getting thrown several feet backward for his trouble. Undaunted, he scrambles to his feet and charges back in.

She's firing faster now, moving sideways as she does, no time for careful aim. The varterral will be upon her in seconds, and she can rely on nothing but her own quickness. One strike from those limbs of sharpened stone could cut clean through her.

And then the creature is looming over her, shrieking again as Lyna shoulders her bow and draws daggers. Runed one with fire and one with ice, they hiss and crackle, spitting frost and flame with each strike. Aim for the joints, move and dodge and strike again. Out of the corner of her eye she sees red on Falon's golden fur. If she can just damage the creature's legs, slow it down, they can get around it and run for the mirror—

And then a blow strikes her square in the middle of her breastplate, not the sharp end but the blunt joint of the creature's foreleg, throwing her backward and knocking the wind out of her so hard she barely feels the pain of the landing, struggling only to pull air back into her screaming lungs.

_Creators help me—Andruil, blood and force, let not my weapon fall from my hand—_

A thin breath scrapes her throat. Another. She's breathing, she lives—

Shadow falls over her face. The varterral towers over her. She's struggling, _trying_ to stagger to her feet—

_Spare us from the moment we become your prey—_

She sees the blow coming, the massive foreleg dark as ironbark worked to a razor point.

It misses.

_Get up, Lyna._

She's on her feet, gasping, but too slow, the killing blow comes again—

And misses a second time, its talon hitting the stone floor with a deafening scrape.

Falon barks, and Lyna's vision finally clears and she sees her—Morrigan, staff in hand, and the dark wisps of magic curling around the varterral's body.

"To me, Lyna! Hurry!"

Lyna scrambles, her laden pack so much heavier on her back than when she walked sure-footed through the forest. She dashes under the creature, between its many legs, and breaks into a run. She hears the stony skitter of legs at her back, but slowed, confused.

She runs for Morrigan as fast as she can, everything a blur until Morrigan grabs her by the hand. But her hexes are wearing off, and the creature quickly gains on them, lashing out at Morrigan this time with a sharp talon, catching on her robes as it grazes her back, drawing blood. Lyna cries her name as Falon lunges at the varterral again and Morrigan wheels, shouting an incantation and surrounding the creature with the thick dark aura of entropic magic. Whatever the spell, it seems to halt the creature's movement, leaving it writhing and shrieking as Morrigan shoves Lyna toward the eluvian, following quickly after, with Falon on their heels.

Lyna practically falls into the Crossroads, landing on her knees, only in safety feeling the full force of pain wracking her body. Her head swims, and then she feels the warm, tingling heat of healing magic envelop her.

"Don't—waste your mana on me," she manages, breathless still, even as she feels Morrigan's hand on her back—warm, and surprisingly gentle. "I'm just bruised, you're _bleeding—"_

"Hush," Morrigan says simply. Close, so close Lyna can smell the sweat on her skin—Morrigan must have raced through the Crossroads to reach her. So close she wants to fall into her arms.

But she keeps still, letting the warmth sink into her flesh and bones. Swiftly the throbbing in her head ebbs, and the ache of her bruised limbs begins to fade.

"Thank you," she says quietly, still on her knees but straightening up, taking a deep breath. Her lungs fill, freely, and her ribs no longer ache. Beside her, Falon barks and noses at her.

Morrigan smiles. "'Tis nothing I cannot heal, for either of us. Or the dog, for that matter."

Lyna laughs weakly. "And to think, you once told me you were no healer."

"I am not," Morrigan says, affecting a downright charming look of offense. "It behooves any mage to know a few healing spells, but it is far from my specialty."

Lyna smiles sweetly. "Whatever you say."

"Good." Morrigan rises, extending a hand. Lyna takes it, noting the pinch in Morrigan's brow. "Let us go home."

"Do you need to heal first?"

"'Tis but a scratch."

"It looks worse than a scratch."

"I will be fine," Morrigan says, resting a hand on Lyna's shoulder and giving her a wry look. "You, on the other head, took quite a blow to the head when that creature struck you."

"Did I?"

"You did."

Lyna takes a deep breath, feeling the last traces of healing magic still at work. She's safe. They're both safe.

Hand in hand, with Falon trotting beside, they head for home.

She waits to ask the question until Morrigan has rested a bit and healed her own wounds. The cut on her back was not, in fact, as deep as Lyna had feared, and it closes easily as her pale skin glows with an aura of magic, leaving nothing but the blood on her robes to tell she was hurt at all. Morrigan strips them off and tosses them in the pile to be washed, leaving just her smallclothes.

Lyna, her strength returned to her, goes to dress and prepare her game. It's a messy business, but still second nature to her. Before setting to work, she moves to take off her rings. She's had no time to think about it until now, but of course—the ring. Morrigan sensed she was in danger. Morrigan came.

She strings the silver band on the leather cord that holds her Warden's amulet, and sets to work.

At least her hunt was a success. They will eat well tonight.

After a bit of rest, Morrigan conjures magical fire over which to cook their meal. It occurs to Lyna to wonder whether the material of this strange little world could be shaped into wood that could be burned, if not into real living trees. But Morrigan's talents can just as easily draw fire itself from the Beyond, without the fuel the waking world requires. So they sit and watch the flames crackle, her game spitted on a spike called up from the center of the firepit by a snap of Morrigan's fingers, and the hut fills with the delicious smell of roasting meat. Only now does Lyna feel her stomach growl and realize how hungry she is. They will make a fine meal of it tonight with leftovers for tomorrow, and the tougher meat will go into a stew, and the rest will be dried and preserved.

Bringing home food, holding the security of her family in her hands, has always deeply satisfied Lyna. No less so now. Yet as she sits holding Kieran, baby-talking with him and making faces to make him smile and coo, she cannot forgot her careless misstep—drawing Morrigan away from Kieran to rescue her.

"It was this, wasn't it?" she says at last, holding up the hand with the ring. "You could sense I was in danger."

Morrigan nods. "I could. I put up the wards and came at once."

"I'm sorry you had to do that. I should have been more careful."

"Always these apologies. Why—" Morrigan's voice is sharp at first, but softens. "Why must you do that? I trust you did not walk into danger willfully or recklessly. You needed me and I came. There is no need to apologize."

"Willfully, no. Recklessly… I should have put it together that something might be guarding the eluvian."

"'Twas I who should have warned you. I encountered a similar creature guarding Drake's Fall."

"You fought a varterral? _Alone?"_

Morrigan smiles, that beautiful smug self-satisfied smile. "'Tis easier when one can assume the shape of an equally fearsome creature. Still, 'twas not an easy battle."

"I think I fought the same one. Not today—when I was looking for you. It's said they never truly die—"

"The same one? At Drake's Fall?" Morrigan's eyebrows shoot up. "You never mentioned this."

Lyna shrugs. "Didn't seem important at the time?"

"That you fought a vicious ancient creature just to get to me?" There's that smile again. "I'd have been flattered, if nothing else."

Lyna laughs. "Do I not flatter you sufficiently, my love? I'll have to work harder at that."

Morrigan's eyes gleam with satisfaction. "I do not object to this."

"Then yes, I fought a vicious ancient beast to reach you." Lyna moves closer, and Morrigan, wonder of wonders, reaches an arm around her waist to draw her closer still. "There may also have been some undead. A jaunt through the Deep Roads, some darkspawn. You know, the usual."

Morrigan is warm against her side, still smiling. _"Do_ go on."

"Oh, it's much worse than that, love. I had to go to the _Circle of Magi."_

"Unthinkable."

"I had to make small talk with a very overeager little human enchanter with at least five names."

"Horrors."

Lyna giggles in spite of herself. "Finn was really rather nice. A little jumpy."

Morrigan scoffs, but gently. "'Finn,' is it. So that was your other traveling companion. You never did introduce me to your new friends."

"I guess I didn't, did I. Ariane wanted her book—"

"Which I returned, thank you."

"—and Finn, well, he was just along for a little adventure. They got what they were after, and I…" Lyna tips her forehead against Morrigan's cheek. "I found you."

They lie in silence for a while, reclined in each other's arms. Falon has curled up near the fire and begun to snore. Kieran sleeps in his cradle, now woven sturdily of twisting vines of green and gold and black. Lyna feels Morrigan breathing softly against her, and begins to feel rather at peace.

"I must tell you something," Morrigan says abruptly, and Lyna lifts her head.

"What is it?"

"I must—apologize," Morrigan says, looking at her sidelong, her expression troubled. "I should have come to you, that night in camp, after the death of your friend. You were in distress, and I… knew not how to comfort you, so I did not come. 'Twas cowardly of me. I… ask your forgiveness."

Lyna shifts to look her lover in the eye. "What brought this on?"

"It has been… on my mind."

"Morrigan, it's all right. I forgive you."

Morrigan is quiet for a long moment. Lyna waits.

"You know I have never been close to anyone," Morrigan says at last, haltingly. "'Twas but I and Flemeth, and… well, you know about Flemeth. What I felt for you changed me. It frightened me. When I left after the battle, I accepted that end to… what we had. What we were. I told myself I must grow accustomed to being alone again.

"I struck out alone. I found an eluvian. I found this sanctuary, and I told myself it was enough. I would raise the boy, I would prepare him for his future." Morrigan's gaze turns downward, a lonely look in her eyes. "All would be… as it must be. But then he was born, and…" Her expression hardens by a degree. "Here I was, once again. Mother and child in a one-room hut, alone. Only now, 'twas I who was Mother. 'Twas my child who would grow up alone, with me.

"And then I felt you." Morrigan raises her eyes, turns to look at Lyna again. "Approaching, searching for me."

"I interrupted your plans," Lyna says quietly.

"'Twas not that. I… wanted to see you. I missed you. And that troubled me, too."

Lyna nods slowly.

Morrigan sighs, waving a hand in frustration. "I am saying this poorly. You—could have gone north, could you not, and found your clan? Why would you instead choose _me?"_

"I told you. I want to be with you, no matter what."

"You told me. And I believe you. I wish to know _why."_

"There is no _why,_ Morrigan. Not the kind you mean. Because you're you, and you're what I want. What I _choose."_

Morrigan swallows, liquid amber eyes glinting in the firelight. "Perhaps—you are right. Perhaps I am seeking an answer that cannot exist. Nevertheless… I thank you."

Lyna laces her fingers through Morrigan's. "Why did you miss _me?"_

"I do not understand."

Lyna raises an eyebrow. "You said you wanted to see me again—"

"And you will never let me forget it, I'm sure."

Lyna makes a playful face at her. "You could have walked through the eluvian at Drake's Fall and I'd never have found you. But you didn't. You stayed to see me."

Morrigan looks pained. "You really do intend to make me say it aloud."

Lyna smirks. "If I have to answer the question then so do you."

"Very well," Morrigan says with a sigh, looking charmingly put out. "I… never truly felt understood by anyone save Flemeth. And 'twas she who taught me that to be known was to be vulnerable. To be _weak._ To know that you knew me… and cared for me…" She shakes her head. "'Twas as frightening as it was wonderful. I said I had never been close to anyone. Never cared so deeply for anyone as you. I also had never lost such a one. Save my mother, who died by your hand at my request. Who meant to use my body for her own ends." Her brow furrows. "I left you, believing it was what I _must_ do. But do not imagine it caused me no pain, Lyna."

Lyna is quiet for a long moment. "I… wasn't sure."

"I left Ferelden not merely to keep you from following me, but to keep myself from the temptation of going back to you. When I discovered the existence of an eluvian in Drake's Fall… Well, 'twas not just you who broke the promise we made. I told you I would never return to Ferelden, and I did. And I felt that weakness again. I knew that should you pursue me, I would want you to. I would want you back."

"And I came."

"And you came. And I did want you back. I… do, Lyna. I do want you. But to want you is to lose you again."

"Morrigan, I'm not going anywhere." Lyna squeezes her hand. "If this is about the varterral, I'm sorry. I should have been more careful. I won't—"

Morrigan waves her other hand impatiently, though she does not pull away from Lyna's touch. "Forget the varterral. There are things I _cannot_ protect you from. I cannot take away what creeps in your blood. I cannot forget that you will likely die before me."

"The Calling? Is _that_ troubling you? We have at least a few decades before we have to think about that."

"Decades it may be. That does not mean I am not thinking about it."

"A lot can happen in thirty years."

Morrigan purses her lips. "Have you spoken with Avernus recently?"

"A couple of months ago. He's still puttering around Soldier's Peak. Might even discover something useful eventually, if he manages not to fill the place with demons again."

Morrigan nods thoughtfully. "I will have much study of my own to do in the coming years. For now, of course, Kieran comes first, but when he is older… there is much to be found and preserved. Magics known neither to the Circle nor even the Dalish. If you truly mean to stay with me—"

"You know I do."

"—there is no telling what we might find. Perhaps even something that might prolong your life. 'Tis worth looking, is it not?"

"If it means more time with you? With Kieran? Absolutely."

Morrigan smiles. "Then that will be among our undertakings."

"So," Lyna says later, "about those undertakings."

"Ah," says Morrigan.

They have finished eating, a meal that feels downright luxurious after the days of dried meat and cheese. Kieran has been fed and put to bed, and Morrigan returns to sit with Lyna by a comfortably crackling fire. There is a pause, before she takes a deep breath, and speaks.

"You wish to know more. I understand. It is… difficult to explain. There is much that _I_ do not yet understand. Much of the work ahead of me is to gain that understanding. But I have learned things since I left you. I have studied Flemeth's true grimoire, as I said I would. She is… I still do not know exactly what she is, but I know she is not human. I know she possesses power beyond what even I had imagined—and I know that she seeks more."

Lyna moves closer, pleased when Morrigan shifts to meet her, warm against her side. "Wasn't the ritual Flemeth's idea in the first place?"

Morrigan nods. "'Twas her idea, yes. And that is why I can never let her find us. I do not truly fear templars. I never have. But my mother… if any part of her lives, and I am certain it does, she _will_ come for what she thinks is hers. And I will not let her have him."

Lyna is quiet a moment, thinking, before she says, "What if you had never learned… what she intended for you?"

Morrigan too is silent for a moment. "Knowing what she meant to do has changed things, yes. But so has _he."_ She turns to gaze at Kieran's cradle. "I… cannot know. All I know is that he is my son. I will prepare him for his future. But it will not be the one Flemeth planned for him, whatever that may have been. I will protect him from her. For the burden I placed on him… I owe him that."

"Then he has me, too." Lyna slides her arms around Morrigan. " _You_ have me. Whatever comes, Morrigan, you have me. I will protect Kieran, and you. That is a promise. Whatever you need to do, whatever _preparation_ … I understand. I understand if you can't tell me everything yet, but I'm _here._ I'm with you. Believe that."

Morrigan nods, and through the reticence of her expression shines a ray of hope. "I told you at Drake's Fall that you could not know what you asked."

"It's true. I cannot. But I'm with you. And Kieran. I'm with you for good."

Morrigan smiles. "Then I will tell you what I can. And Lyna…" She turns, and rests her cheek against Lyna's, and takes her hand, their fingers intertwined. "Difficult as it may be for me to say, your presence has been, _is,_ a gift. One greater than I could have ever hoped for. Believe that."

"I do," Lyna says, and their lips meet, soft, and then impassioned, breathless, and between kisses, Lyna breathes again, "I do."

They leave their smallclothes on the floor, when they move to bed.

* * *

In the months and years that follow, two women might sometimes be sighted in remote villages to the north, one an elf wearing the markings of the Dalish, the other a human bearing the look of the southern Wilds. And always with them, a dark-haired child, their son. They will be most commonly seen browsing the local markets, though one or the other might venture alone into forest or ruin, bow or staff close at hand, but there they will take care to pass unseen. In villages, they will never linger long enough to become familiar.

Command of the Fereldan Wardens will pass to Alistair, though he will be glad to receive word now and again from his old friends—always vague as to their whereabouts, yet assuring him that they are well.

As their son grows, their travels will take them to many far and wondrous places, though always their sanctuary will remain, a safe retreat from the rest of the world.

Whatever the future brings, they will face it together, mother and mother and son.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
